Just, people.

Cloudy days seem to bring out my curiousity for others I don't know.
Like the little eight year old crying on her front steps.
Like the old man that sits by college town bagels every morning, smiling.

Like the creepy girl I walk home with, who talks to herself when she thinks I can't hear.

Do I really know who is walking down the street?
A completely different person. Another life.
With other stories that they've gone through
Grief and love that I've never really known,

Because I won't talk to them.
Because I don't want another awkward interaction.

Because they're just a stranger. I'm not expected to know them all that well.
Yet,
It's still so satisfying pretending I do.

'Your eyes they turn,
turn me into
phantoms'